The Erckmann-Chatrian Megapack: 20 Classic Novels and Short Stories

by Émile Erckmann

  All this passed through my mind like a flash of lightning. I was seized with a trembling which did not leave me for three years, and when, at the same moment, the pale face of Wolfgang, with his little lamp in his hand, appeared at the vent-hole, and when, with my hands joined together by terror, I wished to supplicate him—I perceived that I stammered in an atrocious manner—not a word issued from my trembling lips. When he saw me thus, he smiled, and I heard him murmur:

  “The coward!—he prays to me!”

  This was my coup de grace. I fell with my face against the ground, and I would have fainted—if the fear of being attacked by the old woman had not brought me to myself. Still she had not yet moved. Wolfgang’s face had disappeared. I heard the maniac walk across his garret, move back the table and clear his throat with a short, dry cough. My hearing was so acute that the slightest sound reached me and made me shiver. I heard the old woman yawn, and turning round, I perceived, for the first time, her eyes glittering in the darkness. At the same time I heard Wolfgang descend the ladder; I counted the steps one by one until the sound was lost in the distance. Where had the wretch gone? But during the whole of that day and the following night he did not appear. It was only the next day, about eight o’clock in the evening, at the moment that the old woman and myself were howling loud enough to make the very walls tremble, that he returned.

  I had not closed my eyes. I no longer felt fear or rage. I suffered from hunger—devouring hunger—and I knew that it would increase.

  The moment I heard a slight sound in the garret I ceased my cries and raised my eyes. The vent-hole was lighted up. Wolfgang had lighted his lamp. He was, doubtless, coming to look at me. In this hope I prepared a touching speech, but the lamp was extinguished—no one came!

  It was perhaps the most frightful moment of my torture. I thought to myself that Wolfgang, knowing that I was not sufficiently reduced, would not deign even to cast a glance on me, that in his eyes I was only an interesting subject, who would not be ripe for science until two or three days had elapsed, when I was between life and death. It seemed to me that I felt my hair slowly whiten on my head. And it was true—it began to turn gray from that moment. At last my terror became so great that I lost my consciousness.

  Towards midnight I was awakened by the contact of a body with my own. I bounded from my place with disgust. The old woman had approached me, attracted by hunger. She had hooked her hands onto my clothes; at the same moment the cry of a cat filled the pit and froze me with fear.

  I expected a terrible combat, but the poor unfortunate woman could do nothing. She had been there five days.

  It was then that Wolfgang’s words returned to my memory—“Once the animal soul is extinct the vegetable soul will manifest itself—the hair and the nails grow in the grave, and a green moss takes root in the interstices of the skull.” I fancied the old woman reduced to this condition—her skull covered with moldy lichen and I lying beside her, our souls spreading out the humid vegetation side by side in the silence!

  This picture so acted upon my mind that I no longer felt the pangs of hunger. Extended against the wall with my eyes wide open, I looked before me without seeing anything.

  And while I was thus more dead than alive, a vague gleam was infiltrated through the darkness. I raised my eyes. Wolfgang’s pale face appeared at the vent-hole. He did not smile; he appeared to experience neither joy, satisfaction nor remorse—he observed me.

  Oh, that face made me fear! If he had smiled, if he had rejoiced over his revenge—I should have hoped to have been able to move him—but he simply observed!

  We remained thus, our eyes fixed on each other. I, struck with terror; he, cold, calm, and attentive, like the face of an inert object. The insect pierced by a needle, which we observe through a microscope, if it thinks—if it comprehends the eye of man, must view it in this light.

  It was necessary that I should die to satisfy the curiosity of a monster. I felt certain that prayers would be useless, so I said nothing.

  After having observed me in this way, the maniac, doubtless satisfied with his observations, turned his head to look at the old woman. I followed mechanically the direction of his eyes. There are no terms that I can use that can explain what I saw—a face haggard and emaciated, limbs shrunk up and so sharp that they seemed ready to pierce the rags that covered them. Something shapeless, horrible, the head of a skeleton, the hair disheveled round the skull like dried herbs, and in the midst of all this two burning eyes and two long yellow teeth.

  Fearful tiding! I could already distinguish two snails on the skeleton. When I saw this I closed my eyes with a convulsive moment, and said to myself, “In five days I shall be like that!”

  When I opened my eyes again the lamp had been withdrawn.

  “Wolfgang,” I cried, “God is above you! God sees you! Woe to monsters!”

  I passed the rest of the night in a delirium of fear.

  Having dreamed again, in the delirium of fever, of the chances I had of escape and finding none, I suddenly made up my mind to die, and this resolution procured me some moments of relief. I reviewed in my mind Hasenkopf’s arguments relative to the immortality of the soul, and for the first time I found that they had invincible strength.

  “Yes,” I cried, “the passage through this world is only a time of trial, injustice and cupidity, and baleful passions rule the heart of man. The weak are crushed by the strong, the poor by the rich. Virtue is only a word on the earth; but all is restored to order after death. God sees the injustice of which I am the victim. He gives me credit for the sufferings that I endure. He will forgive me for my ill-regulated appetites—my excessive love of good cheer. Before admitting me into His kingdom He wished to purify me by a vigorous fast. I offer my sufferings to the Lord!”

  And yet I must confess that in spite of my deep contrition, my regrets for good cheer, for the society of my joyous companions, for that life which glides away in the midst of songs and good wine, made me heave many sighs. I fancied I heard soup bubbling in the pot, wine gurgling from bottles, the clinking of glasses, and my stomach groaned as if it were a living person. It seemed to be a kind of being apart from my own being, and protested against the philosophical arguments of Hasenkopf.

  The greatest of my sufferings was thirst. It became so intolerable that I licked the saltpeter on the walls to give me relief.

  When vague and uncertain gleams of daylight shone through the vent-hole I became furious.

  “The wretch is there,” I said to myself; “he has bread, a pitcher of water—he is drinking.”

  Then I fancied I saw him with the pitcher to his lips—I seemed to see torrents of water passing slowly down his throat. Anger, despair, and indignation took possession of me, and I ran round the pit, screaming out to the top of my voice:

  “Water! water! water!”

  And the old woman, reanimated, repeated after me like a maniac:

  “Water! water! water!”

  She crawled on her hands and knees after me. Pandemonium could have nothing more horrible.

  In the midst of this scene, Wolfgang’s pale face appeared for the third time at the vent-hole. It was about eight o’clock. Stopping, I exclaimed:

  “Wolfgang, listen to me. Give me one drink from your pitcher, and you may leave me to die of hunger. I will not reproach you!”

  And I wept.

  “You are acting too barbarously towards me,” I continued. “Your immortal soul will have to answer for it before God. With respect to this old woman, it is as you say judicious to experiment in anima vili. But I have studied, and I find your system splendid. I am worthy to understand it. I admire you! Let me only take one drink of water. What is that to you? There was never a more sublime conception than yours. It is certain that the three souls exist. Yes, I will proclaim it to the world. I will be your most firm adherent. Will you not let me take one single drink of water?”

  Without making any reply, he retired.

  My exasperation knew no boun
ds. I threw myself against the wall with the utmost violence; I apostrophized the wretch in the most bitter terms.

  In the midst of this fury I suddenly perceived that the old woman had fallen senseless all her length on the ground. The idea came to me to drink her blood. Man’s necessities carry him to excesses which are enough to make one tremble; it is then that the ferocious beast is awakened in him; and that all sentiments of justice and benevolence are effaced by the instinct of self-preservation.

  “Of what use is her blood to her?” I said to myself. “She must soon perish. If I delay all her blood will be dried up.”

  Red flames passed before my eyes; fortunately when I bent over the poor old woman my strength forsook me, and I fainted away by her side with my face in her rags.

  How long did I remain in this state of unconsciousness? I do not know, but I was awakened from it by a curious circumstance, the recollection of which will for ever remain imprinted on my brain. I was aroused by the plaintive howling of a dog; this howling was so feeble, so pitiable, so poignant, that it was even more touching than the lamentations of human beings, and no one could hear it without being affected by it. I rose up, my face bathed in tears, without knowing from whence came these cries, so much in harmony with my own grief. I listened attentively, and judge of my stupor, that it was I myself who groaned in this manner without being aware of it.

  From this moment all recollection was effaced from my memory. It is certain, however, that I remained two days longer in the pit under the eye of the maniac, whose enthusiasm at seeing his idea triumph was so great that he did not hesitate to convoke the presence of several of our philosophers, that he might enjoy their admiration.

  * * * *

  Six weeks afterwards I came to consciousness in my little room in the Rue Plat d’Etaw, surrounded by my comrades, who congratulated me for having escaped from this lesson in transcendental philosophy.

  It was a pathetic moment when Ludwig Bremer brought me a mirror. When I saw myself thinner than Lazarus when he was raised from the dead, I could not help shedding tears.

  Poor Catherine Wogel had died in the pit.

  With respect to myself I was threatened with chronic gastritis for the rest of my days; but thanks to my good constitution, and thanks especially to the care of Dr. Aloius Killian, I recovered my former good health.

  It is almost needless to add that the wretch Wolfgang was brought to justice; but instead of being hung as he deserved, after a delay of six months he was brought in by the jury as insane, and was confined in the Klingenmuster, the insane asylum of Rhenish Bavaria, where visitors could hear him expatiate in a peremptory manner of the three souls. He accused humanity of injustice, and pretended that he ought to have a statue raised to his memory for his magnificent discovery.

  THE CONSCRIPT

  A STORY OF THE FRENCH WAR OF 1813

  INTRODUCTORY NOTE

  Instead of following “Madame Thérèse” with stories celebrating the victories of Napoleon and thus appealing to their compatriots’ love of glory and military illusions, MM. Erckmann-Chatrian take up next the tragic and far more significant story of 1812-13. With “The Conscript” begins their long, sustained, and eloquent sermon against war and war-wagers—the exordium, so to say, of their arraignment of Napoleon for wanton and insatiate love of conquest. “The Conscript” is certainly one of the most impressive statements of the darker side of the national pursuit of military glory that have ever been made. The first part of the book is taken up with a vivid and pathetic account of the passage of the grande armée through Alsace on its way to Moscow and the Beresina, of the anxious waiting for news of the battles that succeeded, of the first suspicions of disaster and their overwhelming confirmation, of the final rout and awful straggling retreat and return of the great expedition, and its demoralized and harassed entry within the national frontiers once more. The second and major portion narrates the rude surprise of the continuation of warfare and the still more fatal campaign which opened so dubiously with Lutzen and Bautzen, and culminated so disastrously in Leipsic and the capitulation of Paris. Poor Joseph Bertha, who tells the affecting and exciting story, is snatched away from his betrothed and his peaceful trade by the conscription, and his individual experiences in the campaign are as interesting, from the point of view of romance, as their representative nature and his shrewd and simple reflections upon them are historically and philanthropically suggestive. Certainly, war, in the minutiae of its reality, has never been more graphically painted than in “The Conscript of 1813.”

  CHAPTER I

  Those who have not seen the glory of the Emperor Napoleon, during the years 1810, 1811, and 1812, can never conceive what a pitch of power one man may reach.

  When he passed through Champagne, or Lorraine, or Alsace, people gathering the harvest or the vintage would leave everything to run and see him; women, children, and old men would come a distance of eight or ten leagues to line his route, and cheer and cry, “Vive l’Empereur! Vive l’Empereur!” One would think that he was a god, that mankind owed its life to him, and that, if he died, the world would crumble and be no more. A few old Republicans would shake their heads and mutter over their wine that the Emperor might yet fall, but they passed for fools. Such an event appeared contrary to nature, and no one even gave it a thought.

  I was in my apprenticeship since 1804, with an old watchmaker, Melchior Goulden, at Phalsbourg. As I seemed weak and was a little lame, my mother wished me to learn an easier trade than those of our village, for at Dagsberg there were only wood-cutters and charcoal-burners. Monsieur Goulden liked me very much. We lived on the first story of a large house opposite the “Red Ox” inn, and near the French gate.

  That was the place to see princes, ambassadors, and generals come and go, some on horseback and some in carriages drawn by two or four horses; there they passed in embroidered uniforms, with waving plumes and decorations from every country under the sun. And in the highway what couriers, what baggage-wagons, what powder-trains, cannon, caissons, cavalry, and infantry did we see! Those were stirring times!

  In five or six years the innkeeper, George, had made a fortune. He had fields, orchards, houses, and money in abundance; for all these people, coming from Germany, Switzerland, Russia, Poland, or elsewhere, cared little for a few handfuls of gold scattered upon their road; they were all nobles, who took a pride in showing their prodigality.

  From morning until night, and even during the night, the “Red Ox” kept its tables in readiness. Through the long windows on the first story nothing was to be seen but great white table-cloths, glittering with silver and covered with game, fish, and other rare viands, around which the travellers sat side by side. In the yard behind, horses neighed, postilions shouted, maid-servants laughed, coaches rattled. Ah! the hotel of the “Red Ox” will never see such prosperous times again.

  Sometimes, too, people of the city stopped there, who in other times were known to gather sticks in the forest or to work on the highway. But now they were commandants, colonels, generals, and had won their grades by fighting in every land on earth. Old Melchior, with his black silk cap pulled over his ears, his weak eyelids, his nose pinched between great horn spectacles, and his lips tightly pressed together, could not sometimes avoid putting aside his magnifying-glass and punch upon the workbench, and throwing a glance toward the inn, especially when the cracking of the whips of the postilions, with their heavy boots, little jackets, and perukes of twisted hemp, awoke the echoes of the ramparts and announced a new arrival. Then he became all attention, and from time to time would exclaim:

  “Hold! It is the son of Jacob, the slater,” or of “the old scold, Mary Ann,” or of “the cooper, Frantz Sepel! He has made his way in the world; there he is, colonel and baron of the empire into the bargain. Why don’t he stop at the house of his father, who lives yonder in the Rue des Capucins?”

  But when he saw them shaking hands right and left in the street with those who recognized them, his tone changed; he wi
ped his eyes with his great spotted handkerchief, and murmured:

  “How pleased poor old Annette will be! Good! good! He is not proud; he is a man. God preserve him from cannon-balls!”

  Others passed as if ashamed to recognize their birth-place; others went gayly to see their sisters or cousins, and everybody spoke of them. One would imagine that all Phalsbourg wore their crosses and their epaulettes; while the arrogant were despised even more than when they swept the roads.

  Nearly every month Te Deums were chanted, and the cannon at the arsenal fired their salutes of twenty-one rounds for some new victory, making one’s heart flutter. During the week following every family was uneasy; poor mothers especially waited for letters, and the first that came all the city knew of; “such an one had received a letter from Jacques or Claude,” and all ran to see if it spoke of their Joseph or their Jean-Baptiste. I do not speak of promotions or the official reports of deaths; as for the first, every one knew that the killed must be replaced; and as for the reports of deaths, parents awaited them weeping, for they did not come immediately; sometimes indeed they never came, and the poor father and mother hoped on, saying, “Perhaps our boy is a prisoner. When they make peace he will return. How many have returned whom we thought dead!”

  But they never made peace. When one war was finished, another was begun. We always needed something, either from Russia or from Spain, or some other country. The Emperor was never satisfied.

  Often when regiments passed through the city, with their great coats pulled back, their knapsacks on their backs, their great gaiters reaching to the knee, and muskets carried at will; often when they passed covered with mud or white with dust, would Father Melchior, after gazing upon them, ask me dreamily: